


but the fighter still remains

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 15:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12192201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: An impromptu boxing lesson set to a Simon and Garfunkel song leads to a bruised face and mended hearts.





	but the fighter still remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lolllie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolllie/gifts).



> This little ditty is dedicated to Lollie, who was having an off day a couple months ago (and really, who hasn’t been in this Year of Our Lord 2017?) and prompted me with a cute picture of Martin Freeman with his fists up, seeming to ask, “You wanna go?” 
> 
> And I did.
> 
> While I was writing, I got earwormed by “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkel, which is one of my favorite songs, so this kind of became songfic. If you're not familiar, check out the tune: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3LFML_pxlY
> 
> So...here it is.

Sherlock slammed the door off Baker Street and leaned back against it, cringing as he brought his scarf, which had been wrapped around an ice pack, against his right cheekbone. He hissed at the cold, then hummed in appreciation as the chill fought against the throbbing pain. He dropped his head back and shut his eyes, then pushed himself off the door and regarded the stairway.

Seventeen steps, Holmes. You can do this.

There was a small stripe of light beneath the door to the kitchen, and Sherlock could smell spag bol on the stove and hear the puttering of his roommate as he moved around the kitchen. He smiled, thoughts of comfort and home seeping in like the delicious smells from above.

Yes. You can do this.  
  
He clomped up the steps, sure that the noise he was making would alert John to his approach. But as he opened the door to the sitting room, he heard music...not anything he recognized, of course. John’s taste in music was abhorrent.

 

_I’m just a poor boy_  
_Though my story’s seldom told_

 

John sang along softly to the folksy tune as he shuffled around the kitchen. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe with his left shoulder and watched, smiling.

 

_I have squandered my resistance_  
_For a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises…_

 

John turned, wooden spoon to his lips, and, gasping, dropped it, leaving a wide streak of marinara sauce across his jumper. Sherlock glanced down at his own shirt, which was spotted with a mere three drops from his nosebleed. Thank god it had stopped quickly. Such things weren’t dignified.

“Jesus, Sherlock! Warn a bloke when you’re housebreaking your own flat!” John retrieved the spoon and turned toward the sink to wash off the soiled utensil.

“Spurious suggestion, John. Why would a housebreaker announce himself? Not to mention that one can’t actually break into…”

Sherlock winced, right hand moving up to shift his jaw from side to side to ensure that it wasn’t actually fractured. John chuckled. “Oh. You’re joking.”

His roommate spread the towel from his shoulder on the worktop and placed the spoon on top to dry, then moved to turn off the burner heating the pasta dish. Completing his task, he finally took in the bruise on Sherlock’s right cheek.

Advancing toward his flatmate, John brought his hand up to gently probe at his battered right cheek with his fingertips. Sherlock hissed again. “What happened to your face...mate?”

Sherlock chose to concentrate on the soft friction of John’s fingers across his skin, the concern in his lovely voice. He closed his eyes and let out a low sigh.

 

_A man hears what he wants to hear_  
_And disregards the rest_

 

“Not broken.” John’s flipped his hands and brushed the back of his hand against Sherlock’s face to the corner of Sherlock’s jaw.

Christ, that jaw.

He could feel a tiny bit of stubble from the day and he swallowed, letting his eyes drop to Sherlock’s plump lips. Thank god those hadn’t been injured…

Get it together, Watson.

This had been happening more and more recently, being distracted by the strong, handsome structure of his friend’s face. He determinedly stepped back and cleared his throat.

“Did Anderson finally snap?”

“Of course not, John. I was undercover with the McConnell gang. A friendly boxing match broke out, and…” he motioned to his bruised and swollen face with his long, pale hand.

“And...your reflexes aren’t what they used to be?”

“Pugilism is such an inelegant sport, John,” Sherlock began, but stopped when he saw the shorter man roll his eyes and step back to the stove.

“But yes, I should have seen that punch coming. I was concentrating too hard on attempting to…” Sherlock mimed a boxing stance and attempted to spring onto his toes, “...what do you call it...shuffle?”

John snorted and stirred the sauce once more, then set the casserole dish in the oven and set the timer.

“What?” Sherlock dropped the scarf and ice to fold his arms. Bruised face serious, he moved to loom over his flatmate.

John closed the oven door and turned, leaning back against the worktop and gazing up into Sherlock’s face. “It really shouldn’t surprise me. A poncy bloke like you…”

John, quite consciously this time, let his eyes drift down and up the long body in front of him. Sherlock pretended not to notice, but preened internally.

 

_Looking for the places_  
_Only they would know_

 

“What, a rough-and-tumble soldier from the North Country has some innate skill in fisticuffs?”

“Oh, fuck you, Holmes. You want to go?” John ripped his apron over his head, tossed the spoon aside, and guided Sherlock by his shoulders toward the sitting room.

The men pushed their chairs and the coffee table aside in a giddy, haphazard manner, eager to see where this would end.

John doffed his sweater and rolled his sleeves as Sherlock gave his injured cheek one last swipe with the cool ice before setting it on the mantelpiece next to Billy. He turned to face John, who had already widened his stance and brought his fists up, left in front of right.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as his friend began to shake his hips back and forth. He was caught between licking his lips in lust at John’s masculine posture and bursting into laughter at the inelegant wiggling. Was this some type of antiquated mating dance?

He let his eyes drop to his friend’s feet and smiled. Ah, yes, this was familiar. The man who had buggered up his cheek had been similarly light on his feet. Sherlock ruffled his curls, bounced on his toes, and took a couple of deep breaths.

“Yes, right.” John cleared his throat and maneuvered Sherlock’s arms into the on guard position, then used his smaller hands to fold long fingers into fists. Their eyes caught and held briefly at the intimate gesture, the two men basically holding hands.

John shook his head and stepped back into his stance. He quickly showed Sherlock the basics of jab and cross, duck and weave. Short lesson concluded, they began trading soft punches.

It didn’t take Sherlock long to notice that John was pulling his. He never made direct contact, instead barely brushing his fist over Sherlock’s skin. It was...patronizing. Infuriating. Sherlock let anger seep into his actions, increasing the strength behind his blows. But John easily dodged every time, a taunting smile shining in his dark blue eyes.

But then, just as Sherlock released a particularly vicious jab, the oven timer buzzed. John jerked his head toward the kitchen and the punch connected. Sherlock watched in horror as he felt the crunch of nasal cartilage under his fist.

He gasped, grabbing the ice pack from the fireplace and guiding John, hands clasped over his nose, to the couch. He leaned his head against the back of the sofa and John pinched the bridge of his nose as Sherlock gently pressed the ice into his hand.

The detective worried his fingertips over his best friend’s face and leaned his head next to his ear, breathing out a heartfelt “John, I am so sorry.”

His soothing hand finally came to rest with the pad of his thumb on John’s lower lip. Sherlock pulled his head back and fixed his eyes on this forbidden touch. He felt a sharp inhalation gust over the digit and snapped his eyes up to meet John’s.

 

_There were some times I was so lonesome_  
_I took some comfort there_

 

The kiss happened quite naturally, really.

John let the ice fall out of his left hand and reached behind Sherlock’s head, his cold fingers tangling in curls as he pulled that familiar face toward his own.

For his part, Sherlock slipped his thumb between John's lips and pressed his own into the resulting gap, breathing in the scent of blood, of man...of desire.

Finally.

****

 

_And he carries the reminders_  
_Of ev’ry glove that laid him down_

 

A month or so later, at one of their customary pub nights, John almost choked on his pint when Lestrade asked about the bump of the bridge of his nose.

“Now, mate, I’m sure you didn’t have that before. Did you get into a tussle with a dark, mysterious villain?”

“Something like that…” John smiled and let his gaze settle in the mid-distance as he hummed a Simon and Garfunkel song and descended into the memory of the pain and pleasure of that evening.

_Lie la lie, lie la la la la lie_


End file.
